


Used To.

by PR1NC3



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, M/M, Mentions of an existential crisis, Self-Harm, protective!Phil, younger!Dan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4210878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PR1NC3/pseuds/PR1NC3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It used to be an itch he need to scratch, a secret he needed to hide, a need he needed to fulfil. </p>
<p>It used to be until he met <i>him</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Used To.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been on my mind for quite some time and has been typed on my phone, so I apologise for the lack of quality on this one.

He used to do it. 

It used to be an itch he need to scratch, a secret he needed to hide, a need he needed to fulfil. 

He didn't think that it was something problematic or something that would ultimately harm him in the long run. He just needed to do it to release just a little bit of the tension he had, to calm his nerves and to settle his anxiety.

Existential crises were the worst. He'd sit and stare and really wonder if what he did would be considered self harm. 

He knew the consequences of going too deep, or nicking the artery or running along the pavement and not crossing the road. He knew all of those which was why he never did it, not to that extent, that is. 

He started small, a nick or two here and there. The smaller the better, it was easier to hide and he wouldn't have to answer any questions. 

_"Oh that one? It was just a paper cut from when I dropped my assignments and had to pick them up in a hurry."_

_"I accidentally nicked myself on the sharp pencil when I was hurrying to grab a piece of paper that was flying away."_

_"Ah, an accident from cutting fruit, man those knives are sharp."_

Excuses came easily, as easily as developing a habit in fact. 

He didn't like accessories but it was the easiest way to conceal his small scars. 

Cuffs hid his scars, jumpers go past his hands, form fitting cardigans covered his wrists.

He used to do it, till he met _him._

_He_ dispelled his fears, calmed his fraying nerves and soothed his anxiety. _He_ talked him through his crises, _he_ smoothed away his tension.

_He_ was all Dan ever needed to put the blade down. 

"No more nicking," he'd tell himself. 

"If you ever feel the urge, call me," _he_ reassured. 

And it was easy, so easy to press a button and be reunited with him, he who could save him from himself, who could teach him to love himself again. 

University was the worst. Assignments piled up, pressure built up, he had to do well, he had to pass this module, he had to meet all the expectations he placed on himself, he had to become a lawyer, he had to- _cut_ ; he had to _call-._

His hands trembled as he hovered over the call button. He shouldn't be calling him but he had to.

Phil's groggy voice was like a stab through the heart. He shouldn't be, he shouldn't have. Why did he not think of the time. Why wasn't he considerate enough. _He should have just-_

"Dan? Dan, breathe. Deep breaths, Dan, I'm coming over okay? Just breathe ok, Dan?"

Before he knew it, warm arms enveloped him, pulling away the small razor he didn't knew he held. Arms replacing the blade, a chest for him to lean into. Warm breaths into his hair, a kiss against his temple. 

He could breathe again.

"I'm proud of you, Dan. I'm glad you called me. Now let's go to bed okay? We'll work this out alright."

Phil became the antidote to his poison. He cleared his mind and erased his doubts. He helped him build his confidence, helped him find his way, taught him to love.

Dan owed it to himself. Dan owed it to Phil to stop.

And so he slowly weaned himself off the cuffs, the cardigans had to go, jumpers were only for cold days. The scars turned from red to white as time passed by, fading away to barely-there ridges on his slim wrists. 

His hands only held one other thing. His hands had no need for a blade to nick himself with. His hands found a place in _his_ hands. 

Sometimes Dan would catch Phil running his thumb over the almost-smooth ridges. 

He had traded the blade for his best friend, his best mate, his love. And when he stared into his eyes, so full of love, joy and pride, he knew he'd made the right decision.

Dan used to cut, but now the only thing he'd be cutting are square flakes with Phil, or onions that he'd blame the tears on and Dan wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
